The box sits on Cameron’s kitchen counter, untouched, for three days.
Aunt Jeanne had schlepped it out of the trailer herself. Toss it if you want, but at least look through it first, she’d said. Family’s important.
Cameron had rolled his eyes. Family. But when that woman truly wants her way, arguing is pointless. So the box traveled home with him. Now, Cameron eyes it from the sofa, considering turning off SportsCenter to take a look. Might be something in there he could take down to the pawnshop. Katie will need his half of July’s rent soon.
Maybe after lunch.
The microwave hums and rotates his noodle cup while he waits. Cooking by magnet-blasting radiation, causing food molecules to beat the shit out of each other: Who comes up with this stuff, figures out how to market it? Whoever that guy is, he’s probably swimming naked in a pile of cash somewhere, surrounded by supermodels. Life is unfair.
Ding.
Cameron removes the steaming cup. He’s carrying it back to the sofa, careful not to let it slosh, when the apartment door creaks open, startling him.
“Shit!” Scalding liquid spills over his hand.
“Cam! Are you okay?” Katie drops her work bag and runs over.
“I’m fine,” he mutters. What’s she doing home on a Tuesday afternoon? Then again, she might ask him the same
question. His mind spins. Had he told her he was working today? Had she asked?
“Hang on,” she says, ducking into the kitchen, her perfect little butt twitching under her gray skirt. Katie works at the front desk of the Holiday Inn by the freeway. Good thing she’s been working day shift lately. He would’ve been busted by now if she were still on nights.
She hurries back, carrying two damp rags.
“Thanks,” Cameron says as she hands him one. Its coolness is welcome relief on his hand. Then she squats down to wipe up the spilled broth with the other.
“So, you’re home early,” he says, bending to help, forcing his voice to be casual.
“I’ve got a dentist appointment this afternoon.
Remember? We talked about it last week.”
“Oh yeah. Right.” Cameron nods, vaguely recalling.
“I don’t remember you mentioning you were off today.” She plucks a stray noodle from the carpet and drops it into her rag, looking up at him through narrow eyes.
“Uh, yeah. I’m off today.” He doesn’t add: and tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after.
“Weird they’d give you a day off. It’s only your third week.”
“It’s a holiday, actually.” Shit, why did he say that? She stands. “A holiday?”
“Yeah.” It’s a slippery lie. “International Contractors’ Day. Everyone gets the day off.” Really, what is he going to tell her? The truth? He just needs time. A few days to land a new job. Then it’ll be all good.
“International Contractors’ Day.” “Yep.”
“Everyone gets the day off?” “Everyone.”
“Bizarre they’re still working on the roof next door, then, isn’t it?”
Cameron opens his mouth, but the bang-bang of a nail gun echoes from the rooftop of the next building over, cutting him off.
Katie’s face is cold, blank. “You got fired again.” “I mean, technically—”
“What happened?” “Well, I was—”
“When were you going to tell me?” she interrupts. “I’m trying to tell you now, if you’ll give me a chance!”
“You know what? Never mind.” She picks up her work bag and stomps toward the door. “I don’t have time for this. I’m late for my appointment, and I’m done giving chances.”
CHANCES. IF LIFE kept a tally of chances, Cameron would be owed big-time. What would Katie know about having an addict parent? What would Katie know about this gnawing hatred inside him that never goes away?
Katie, with her parents who bought her a car when she graduated high school. Katie, with her tight gray skirt and straight white teeth, which right now are being polished by some needle-dick dentist. They’ll give her a free toothbrush on the way out. She’ll toss it, still wrapped, in the bathroom drawer because she uses some fancy electric toothbrush anyway.
He’s stretched out on the couch, watching some low- budget action movie, when she finally returns. It occurs to him that it’s been a while. Hours and hours; it’s nearly dark outside now. Way longer than a dentist appointment should take—not that he’d actually know; he hasn’t been to a dentist in years. Maybe Katie had a bunch of cavities or something. A root canal. Aunt Jeanne had a root canal last year and complained about the pain for a week. The thought of perfect Katie getting poked in the mouth with a pointy drill is vaguely satisfying, and this makes him feel like a jerk. “Hey,” he calls, then pauses, waiting for her lamenting sigh, the one meaning she’s still pissed, but less so. He’ll
say he’s sorry, and she’ll frown, but she won’t really mean it, then he’ll put his hand on her leg and she’ll lean into him and they’ll lie here, cuddling, while they finish watching this dumb movie before retiring to bed for some solid post- argument s*x.
But she doesn’t respond. Instead, she heads straight for the bedroom. He half smiles. Straight to it?
Then he hears the first thunk. What the . . . ? He has to investigate.
As he walks in, Cameron watches his work boot sail over the edge of the moonlit balcony, landing below on the tiny square of crusty grass.
Thunk.
Its mate hits the walkway, then bounces a couple of times over the weedy cracks, laces dragging behind.
“Katie! Can’t we talk?” She doesn’t answer.
“Look, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.” Again, no response.
Whiz.
A ball cap grazes his ear as it sails by. His favorite Niners cap. Enough. Yeah, he should have told her he got canned. But could they just talk about it for a hot second before she throws out everything he owns?
“Katie,” he says slowly. Like she’s some wild animal, he reaches out and puts a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t,” Katie mutters, twisting away. She yanks a pair of his boxers from the bureau and wads them in her fist, then hurls them toward the balcony door. But the throw is too soft. The underwear unfurls and flops to the floor.
He bends to pick it up. “Can we just talk?”
“I can’t do this anymore, Cam.” For the first time since she left for the dentist this afternoon, she meets his gaze. Her eyes blaze, like the bonfires they used to build in the shadow of his Jeep when they’d go camping out in the high desert. But those days are long gone. The repo guys
snagged the Jeep months ago. Cameron was going to call the bank, to make their so-called payment arrangement. He swears he was about to do it, but no, they just sent those assholes in and hauled it away, no second chance. Yet another deduction from his chance tally.
“I swear, I was going to tell you. And it wasn’t my fault.” “Sure, it wasn’t your fault. Never is, is it?”
“No!” The relief that washes over him at her sudden empathy is short-lived. Of course she’s being sarcastic. His cheeks burn. “I mean, it’s complicated.” Of course she’s kicking him out. Cameron would probably kick himself out, too.
Katie closes her eyes. “Cameron, it isn’t complicated. I’m going to put this to you as simply as possible, so your juvenile brain can understand. This. Is. Over.”
“But I’ve got rent covered,” he insists, thoughts veering back to Aunt Jeanne’s mystery box. Desperation tinges his voice. He trails Katie from the bedroom into the kitchen, still clutching his boxers.
“This isn’t about rent! It’s about your inability to be an honest human being.” She picks up the mystery box from the counter and starts back toward the bedroom. Toward the balcony. To his surprise, his gut clenches.
“I’ll take that.”
“Fine, whatever. Just get out.” She drops the box, and it lands with a heavy thump on the carpet. Her face has changed, the fire in her eyes vanished. She looks tired.
“You mean right now?” Cameron snorts. She can’t be serious.
“No, next Saturday. I threw your stuff outside for the hell of it.” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, of course, right now.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Not. My. Problem.” She lets out a hollow laugh. “Not that I care, but someday, you’re gonna have to grow up, you know?”
THE BOX MAKES a reasonably comfortable seat. It’s better than the curb, anyway. In the dark, and with his stuff heaped next to him, Cameron waits for Brad to pick him up.
And waits and waits. For an hour. Of all the times to not have a car.
Finally, headlights sweep around the corner. “What the hell happened?” Brad slams his truck door as he gets out.
“What the hell yourself! What took you so long?”
“Well, let’s see. How about, I was asleep. Because it’s almost eleven on a Tuesday night.” Brad starts chucking Cameron’s stuff into the truck bed. “Some of us have to work tomorrow, you know.”
“Hey, fuck you.”
Brad’s face melts into a grin. “Too soon? Sorry.” “Whatever. Can we just go?” As Cameron hoists a trash
bag full of clothes, he glances up at the balcony, where Katie still has the patio door open and the bedroom light on, no doubt watching the curbside scene unfold. He throws one last glance toward the apartment before nestling his guitar case atop the pile and flipping the tailgate up. It creaks loudly, then closes with a metallic bang.
“Come on,” Brad says, unlocking the passenger door. “Get in.”
“Thanks,” Cameron mutters, hopping onto the seat with the box on his lap.
Brad and Elizabeth’s house is on the outskirts of town, where subdivisions pop up overnight like a bad rash. Unnecessary plaster columns and fake brick facades and four-car garages. Bougie as shit. Elizabeth’s parents gave them a huge chunk of money for the down payment a few years ago after their wedding. Must be nice.
But Cameron doesn’t complain about any of these things on the fifteen-minute drive there from his apartment. His old apartment. It’s Katie’s apartment, now. Her name alone is on the lease. When he first moved in, she was constantly on his case about calling the landlord to be officially added,
because Katie always follows the rules. But after a while, she let it drop. Maybe she saw this coming.
“What’s in the box?” Brad asks, interrupting his thoughts. “Baby vipers,” Cameron deadpans, not missing a beat.
“Dozens of them. I hope Elizabeth likes snakes.”
Half an hour later, Brad slides a coaster across the coffee table before he hands Cameron a sweating pint glass, as Cameron finishes explaining what happened.
“Maybe she’ll get over it,” Brad says, yawning. “Just give her a couple of days.”
Cameron looks up. “She threw my shit on the lawn, like something from some dumb chick-flick movie. Every damn thing I own.”
Brad glances at the pile in the corner. “That’s really everything you own?”
“I mean, not literally. But you know.” Cameron frowns. What about his Xbox, still parked in the cabinet under Katie’s TV? He’d skirted overdraft fees to buy that thing when it first came out. But it might as well be Katie’s now. Like hell is he going back there to beg for it.
Maybe those couple of bags, and one dubious box, really
are all he owns now.
Cameron’s eyes fix on Brad’s oversized bay window when he continues, “We can’t all live in a McMansion, you know.” It was meant as a joke, but the words spray out like acid. He attempts to soften his tone. “I mean, I’ve just been embracing my minimalist side.”
Brad raises an eyebrow, stares at Cameron for a long moment, then raises his pint. “Well, here’s to new beginnings.”
“Thanks for letting me crash again. I owe you one.” Cameron clinks, and lager sloshes over the rim, dribbling on the table. Seemingly out of thin air Brad comes up with a paper towel, then leans over to dab the spill.
“You owe me, like, ten. I charge extra for checking in after midnight.” Brad grins, but his eyes are serious. “And I
know I don’t need to tell you this again, but you’ll owe me new furniture if you mess anything up.”
Cameron nods. He got the same speech last week when he crashed on the couch after the bar. Elizabeth just got new living room furniture, and apparently its utilization for normal living room activities, like sitting and lounging, is a sensitive subject. He used to sleep in the guest room when he crashed here, but it’s been remodeled for the baby now. Just last month, Cameron patched the drywall in the closet, for payment in pizza, after Brad tore it up trying to install some ridiculous shelving system. Cameron could patch drywall in his sleep, and in fact he did one time. Or half- asleep, anyway. Or so the foreman of that job site claimed before sacking Cameron on the spot.
“And seriously, Cam?” Brad continues. “Two nights, tops.” “Ten-four.”
“So where are you gonna go?” Brad folds the beer- dampened paper towel and places it neatly on the edge of the table.
Cameron props a sneaker over his knee and twists a fraying shoelace around his finger. “Maybe one of those new apartments downtown?”
Brad sighs. “Cam . . .”
“What? I got a buddy who worked that job. He says they’re nice inside.” Cameron pictures himself settling into a wide leather sofa, digging his bare toes into brand-new carpet. He’ll need a flat-screen, of course, eighty inches at least. He’ll mount it to the wall and run the cords behind so they don’t show.
Brad leans forward, lacing his hands. “There’s no way in hell they’re going to rent one of those to you.”
“Why not?”
“Dude, you have no job.”
“Not true. I’m between projects right now.” “Are you ever not between projects?”
“The construction industry is cyclical.” Cameron straightens up, a bite creeping into his voice. What would Brad know about actual, physical work? He spends all day faffing around some dumpy little office, shuffling papers for the local electric utility.
Brad used to talk about leaving, going to San Francisco or something. But he’ll never leave now, and Cameron knows why. His parents are here, Elizabeth’s, too, and now all four of them are about to be grandparents. The whole clan gets together for dinner on Sunday nights. Probably eats honey- glazed ham or some shit. Why would they ever leave? Cameron wonders if there’s some sort of special tether children of normal families are granted. One for which he’s never been eligible.
“Cam, what’s your credit score?”
Cameron hesitates. Truth is, he has no clue. Hell would freeze before he’d check. When he got the Jeep a few years back, it was in the low six hundreds, but that was several questionable life choices ago. With a sarcastic smirk, he answers, “A hundred and twenty.”
Brad shakes his head. “Maybe that’s your bowling score.
Sure as hell’s not your credit score.”
“Well, what can I say? I’m awesome at bowling.” “Obviously.”
Cameron runs his fingers over the little series of punctures in the side of his sneaker. Probably from Katie’s dog, a teacup something-or-other with a taste for footwear, his in particular. The dog is such a pain in the ass, Katie sent it to live with her parents, but they brought it over every time they visited. At least he won’t have to deal with that garbage anymore.
“Why don’t you go back to school?” Brad suggests, not for the first time. “Get your associate’s degree or something.”
Cameron grunts. Brad should be smart enough to realize college costs money Cameron doesn’t have. But suddenly,
Cameron does have an idea. A good one. “You know that apartment over Dell’s?”
Brad nods. All the regulars at their watering hole know about the place upstairs. They joke sometimes that Old Al, the bartender, could make a killing renting it out by the hour.
“The other night, I heard Old Al say it’s empty,” Cameron continues. “Maybe he’d rent it to me.”
“He might make you settle your tab first. But maybe.” “I’ll ask him when we’re there for our gig next week.” Brad clears his throat. “Next week?”
“Fine. I’ll go over tomorrow.”
“Good,” Brad says. Then he looks down. “By the way, there’s something I need to tell you. I wanted to wait until everyone was together, but . . .”
“But what?” Cameron frowns. “Just spill it.”
“Um. Our Moth Sausage show next week? It’ll be my last.”
“What?” Cameron feels like someone kicked him in the chest.
“Yeah, I’m quitting the band.” Brad grimaces. “With the baby coming, Elizabeth and I think it’s best if—”
“You’re the lead singer,” Cameron blurts. “You can’t quit.”
“Sorry.” Brad looks like he’s shrinking in his chair. “Can you not tell the guys yet? I really wanted to wait until everyone was together.”
Cameron stands and stalks over to the window.
“It’s just that with the baby, things will be different,” Brad goes on.
Cameron glares at Brad and Elizabeth’s front yard, its glowing landscape lights, the golf-course grass, the brick walkway. To his horror, a lump forms in his throat. Of course Brad would leave Moth Sausage when the baby came. He should’ve seen it coming. “I get it,” he says finally.
“I’ll still come to the shows.”
Cameron swallows a scoff. There won’t be any Moth Sausage shows without Brad.
“Elizabeth, too. Maybe we can bring the baby.” Brad lets out a long sigh. “I really am sorry.”
“It’s cool.” Cameron returns to the sofa and starts removing the decorative pillows, making a point to stack them extra neatly. “It’s late. I should sleep.”
“Yeah, okay.” Brad hovers for an extra moment before picking up their empty glasses. “Hang on, you need sheets,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.
Sheets? For a couch? Since when?
A minute later, Brad reappears with an unopened package of bedsheets, which he tosses at Cameron. They’re purple and white striped, and Cameron would bet anything Elizabeth picked them out. Purple has always been her favorite color.
Brad is still hovering like a goddamn mosquito. “Need a hand setting up?”
“Nope.” Cameron flashes a tight smile. “Night.”
“Okay. Uh . . . night.” From the kitchen, Brad calls back, “Don’t let those baby vipers out.”
Cameron doesn’t answer.
